Something About a Soldier - Charles Willeford

by Charles Willeford

  When we passed over the Jones Bridge in Manila, crossing the Pasig River, I noticed the giant circular temperature gauge on the office building on the other side of the river. It read one hundred degrees. I found out later that the temperature rarely dropped below a hundred degrees in downtown Manila in the daytime. At Clark Field, however, it was slightly cooler. Most of the time it was in the low nineties, with matching humidity, just hot and humid enough to maintain. a chronic case of prickly heat.

  The city streets teemed with little people, most of them wearing ragged clothes but all of them moving swiftly, almost scurrying, like little brown insects.

  Traflic moved on the left side of the street, but like all American vehicles our truck had the steering wheel on the left, making it difficult to pass other vehicles. Later, when I was assigned to a truck, I had to leam how to drive on the left side, too. But the only diflicult thing about it was making a right turn at an intersection.

  Clark Field was about sixty-five miles from Manila by highway, and our sergeant in charge, who rode up front with the driver, called for a piss call when we got to San Fernando. Gin was purchased immediately at a Chinaman's store, and by the time we reached Clark Field most of us were fairly drunk on San Miguel gin. When the truck pulled up in front of the barracks the first sergeant met us, and he had some trouble in quieting us down. Our mattresses were spread out on the lawn in front of the barracks to air, and we were told to go upstairs and find our bunks, which had our name tags on them already. We were then told to come back down for a talk by the squadron commander. We staggered into the barracks, carrying our mattresses and barracks bags, and came downstairs again. Irby, one of the guys I had known slightly at March Field, had passed out on his mattress, and the first sergeant couldn't wake him. He snored away, under the hot sun. I wasn't surprised by Irby's immobility. I had only taken two short pulls from the bottle when it was passed around, and my head was buzzing. San Miguel Ginebra, A1—1A, is powerful stuff.

  The first sergeant-lined us up, except for Irby, and called us to attention. The major came out of the orderly rooms to give us his welcoming speech.

  The barracks was two stories, with screened sliding windows dotted with small, square seashell panes, and a corrugated iron roof. (During the rainy season, when the torrents hit the roof, you had to shout to make yourself heard by the guy in the next bunk.) 'The mess hall was on the first Hoor, together with the orderly room, showers and commodes, and small four-man rooms for sergeants. Corporals slept upstairs in the open, barracks with the other lower ranks. The day-room, a One-story building, was separated from the barracks, and the building contained four rooms. There was the day-room itself, with rattan furniture and padded cushions, a radio, and magazines (the squadron subscribed to Time, Life, Scribner's, Atlantic, Harper's, The American Mercury, The Saturday Evening Post, Army Life, and an English-language Manila newspaper that usually arrived one day late). The screened porch off the day-room was reserved for poker games on paydays. The porch was well lighted with strong unshaded bulbs dangling from the ceiling. There was a pool table, which was reserved for crap games on paydays. A door from the day-room led to a much larger room with a bar and a half dozen tables. This was Charlie Com's bar and restaurant. The screened porch that flanked Charlie Com's beer bar was dimly lighted, and much cooler than his main room.

  Charlie Corn had the concession for beer and food at all of the military bases in the Philippines, and he was a rich Chinaman whom no one, apparently, had ever seen in person. Com's overhead was very low because he imported his employees from Canton, and these Chinamen had to work for him without any money until they had paid off their passage from China. He also charged them for their food and sleeping quarters, so it took them about three years of work to pay off and earn their freedom. 'Then, if they decided to quit working for him, Charlie Com usually managed to get them deported back to China without a dime. All the same, the Chinese employees were always cheerful, and most of them stayed with him after paying off their debts because they were still better off in P.I. than they would be back in Canton, China.

  There was a wide, well-manicured lawn, shaded with giant mahogany trees, in front of the barracks. A dirt road led down to the two hangars, the landing field, the headquarters building, the garage, the utility shacks, the combination guardhouse and fire station, and two long, low buildings that warehoused supplies for the airplanes and the squadron.

  Directly across the dirt road from the barracks there were a swimming pool, a tennis court, a bowling alley with two lanes, an Indian store, the medical dispensary, and the backstop and bleachers of the baseball diamond. The road beyond the swimming pool led to the row of houses, or cottages as they were called, occupied by the squadron officers and their families. There was also a nine-hole golf course, with sand greens, and the first tee was directly behind the swimming pool. Golf clubs could be checked out free, but players had to buy their own golf balls. The nine holes went down to the end of the officers' row and back, and the squadron employed a Negrito from the Baluga tribe as greens-keeper.

  As the major outlined the amenities for us, pointing out the pool and the golf course and so on, I could see the little Baluga, an old black man not much more than three feet tall, carrying a bow and two arrows and dragging a weighted piece of burlap over the hole three green. The rest of the space at Clark Field was taken up by an enormous flat grassy landing field which had to be mown more or less constantly with a tractor grass-cutter. There were no concrete runways, and the planes had to land on the grass.

  Clark Field was supported in other respects by Fort Stotsenburg, about two miles away. Fort Stotsenburg was the s base of the 26th Cavalry (Philippine Scouts), all enlisted Filipinos with U.S. Army cavalry officers. The fort also contained the hospital, the post exchange, and the chapel, and a truck took the troops from Clark Field up to the theater and back. The movies changed every night, but during the first two months I was there I had already seen most of them at March Field. The theater was segregated.

  Officers and their families sat downstairs in the front half; Filipino Scouts and their families sat downstairs in the back half; and the balcony was reserved for Clark Field soldiers, who were, of course, white. In 1936 there were no Negroes in the Air Corps.

  The major finished his talk, slapped his right boot with his riding crop twice, and turned to the first sergeant.

  "Have I forgotten anything, Sergeant?"

  "No, sir."

  "Are there any questions, then?"

  Kossowski raised his hand. He was a tall, rangy Texan in his early thirties, and he wore a battered campaign hat with a pale blue infantry hat cord. The major pointed to him with his crop.

  "How can a man get a transfer out of this hell-hole?" Kossowski said in a raspy voice. "I want a transfer to the Thirsty-first Infantry in Manila."

  "Tell him, Sergeant, how to apply for a transfer." The major pointed to the snoring Irby. "And when that man arouses from his slumbers, tell him the procedure as well."

  "Yes, sir."

  After the major stalked out of earshot down the road, the first sergeant spent about fifteen minutes chewing our ass out for our behavior. He told us that we were the worst bunch of replacements he had seen during his ten years as first sergeant of the 3rd Pursuit Squadron. Despite his many years in the tropics, the first sergeant had a pale face, with short blond hair. His blue eyes were faded, however, as though the sun had bleached them. His expression was bland, and didn't change at all, even when his voice deepened with anger. After he calmed down, he got to practical matters. He would interview each man the next morning and assign jobs. We would also be issued khaki cloth and findings, and be measured by the tailor for tailor-made uniforms. (A Filipino tailor had the concession, and he was the first sergeant's brother-in-law, but he didn't tell us that.)

  The money for our uniforms would be taken out of our pay at five dollars a month. The blouse was six dollars, shirts and pants were three dollars apiece, and we could also g
et khaki shorts made for only two dollars a pair. We would only need one blouse, but each man was required to order two shirts and two pairs of pants. Khaki shorts, for off-duty wear, were almost mandatory. If we were interested, the tailor made tropical suits for only twelve dollars, and did beautiful work. We didn't need more than two tailor-made uniforms because, except for those men who worked at headquarters and in the orderly room, we wore coveralls all of the time. Coveralls were issued and charged against our clothing allowances. But by issuing us cloth and findings instead of regulation ready-made uniforms, the squadron commander made certain we all had tailor-made uniforms.

  I don't know whether he requested one or not, but the next day Irby was transferred to Nichols Field, outside Manila. Kossowski, the ex-infantryman, was not transferred. He was assigned to mow the landing field with the tractor mower, and this he did for two years. Kossowski had been an infantry sergeant back in the States, but all ranks below staff sergeant belonged to the organization and not to the man. So when he had transferred to the Philippines he had to give up his three stripes and come over as a private. If he had been allowed to transfer to the 31st Infantry he would have had his three stripes back in no time, but he never received a promotion at Clark Field-C not even to P.F.C.

  ***

  BY THE TIME THE FIRST SERGEANT GOT AROUND TO dismissing us, our bunks had been made by the Filipino houseboys. After we unpacked our barracks bags and stored our things away in our foot- and wall lockers, the houseboys started to shine our extra pairs of shoes, both civilian and G.I., that we kept lined up under our beds. Our beds would be made daily and our shoes shined by these houseboys. They also turned back the covers in the evening and tucked in the mosquito bars. They were paid $1.50 a month, which was deducted from our pay. Another $1.50 a month was deducted to pay Filipino K.P.'s, which meant that I wouldn't have to pull any K.P.'s-for the next two years, either. I was a little alarmed by the way the money was suddenly being deducted from my twenty-one-dollars-a-month pay. We were paid in pesos, and pesos were two for a dollar. I had thought that I was going to be fairly well off because my salary was doubled to 42 pesos a month. But after I worked it out, I was no better off than I had been in the States.

  Tailor-made clothes 10 pesos

  Laundry I 3 pesos

  Houseboy 3 pesos

  K.P. 3 pesos

  P.X. checks 14 pesos

  Show tickets 3 pesos

  Cigarettes, three cartons 3 pesos

  Miscellaneous 10 pesos

  Total 49 pesos

  After I went over my figures again, I decided I would be unable to get fourteen pesos a month in P.X. checks, as I had at March Field. Otherwise I would have no money left to get laid on payday at the whorehouse in nearby Angeles. There was some advantage here. The girls in Angeles were only two pesos, whereas the whores on D Street in San Bemardino charged two dollars, but that seemed to be the only difference. On the other hand, I would be living well. No K.P., no cleaning of barracks. I didn't have to shine my shoes or make my bunk, and the food in the mess hall, if the first night's dinner was any indication, was excellent. There were mangoes on the table, and I had tried one after eating my roast beef and mashed potatoes. It had been delicious, and one of the guys at my table told me there were mangoes and bananas on the table every day. Lights in the barracks were turned out at nine P.M. The houseboys had already turned back our covers and put down the mosquito nets. A warm breeze came through the screened windows, but there were still enough mosquitdes around after the sun went down for us to need mosquito bars. `

  I didn't feel like going to bed at nine, so I wandered over to the day-room. I looked into Charlie Com's (the bar and day-room stayed open until eleven), but I didn't have any money. I had spent my last dime on two Hershey bars after the ship left Guam.

  I left the bar and went into the day-room. There was an old guy listening to the radio. He had it tuned so low I couldn't hear it. He had to sit with his head right next to the speaker to hear it himself. There was no point in asking him to turn up the volume because there was an unwritten rule that the man sitting in the chair next to the radio was in charge of the dial and the volume. I had learned about this rule at March Field. The old fart was keeping it low because he didn't want anyone else to hear it. There are always a few bitter old soldiers, professional privates, like that in every outfit. Some of these guys have been in the Army since the World War, and their only distinction is that they won a medal or two in France. They sneak their watch out of their watch pocket, look at it guardedly, and put it back. If you ask for the time, they say, "Get your own goddamned watch!" If you ask for a light, they say, "Support your own goddamned habit!" The old fuck, with his ear pressed against the radio, was looking at me out of the corner of his eye. I knew he wanted me to ask him to turn up the volume so he could refuse in a nasty way. I denied him that satisfaction and went out on the porch instead.

  There was a hollow-chested guy sitting at one of the tables under the bright overhead dangling light. He was smoking and staring through the screen at the black night. Small fuck-you lizards clung to the outside of the screen, repeating again and again in soprano chirps, "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you . . ."

  I rolled a cigarette. The guy looked at me with a lopsided smile. There was dime-sized skin cancer on his left cheek. He had shaved around it carefully, leaving a quarter-inch

  circle of stiff black hairs to form a hedge around the cancer.

  "You got in today," he said, making a statement out of it.

  "Yeah." I lit my cigarette.

  "I'm leaving tomorrow morning. Two years exactly. And two years from now, unless you extend for a year, you'll be leaving too."

  Although I already knew this, it hit me hard. This was . October 30, 1936, and the boat left the next day, October 31—two years exactly for this guy. And it would be two years exactly for me. In the morning he would get on the truck, ride down to Manila, and get on the U.S.S. Ulysses S. Grant. Then, after the boat dumped off the men in China, he would return to San Francisco.

  "Your two years," I asked him, "did it go fast or slow?"

  "It seemed like an eternity." His lopsided smile made him look as if he had some secret knowledge.

  "What did you do?"

  "I don't know. But whatever it was, I've been punished enough for it by now. I made it. But I won't feel safe till the whistle blows and the Grant leaves the dock."

  "I don't mean that. I mean, what did you do to pass the time?"

  He made a sweeping movement with his right arm, taking in the porch and the black night.

  "This is it." He shook his head. "I know now I didn't work it right. I sat around and brooded too much. Don't get into that. Go to the barrio and get drunk. If you can, get yourself a girl. But I got even with the bastards the last three months. It was worth getting busted for."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm an armorer. When the chief armorer left on the last boat, three months ago, they promoted me to corporal. He was the man who'd always synchronized the machine guns, to fire through the propellers, you know."

  "On the P-twelves."

  "That's right. A week after he left the old man wanted to do some firing, and I told him I didn't know how to synchronize the machine guns. So after being a corporal for only a week, I lost my two stripes."

  "The other armorer, before he left, should've taught you how to do it."

  "He did, and I do know how. But I told the line chief and the old man that I didn't. I figured they'd bust me, but I also knew they wouldn't be able to shoot any machine guns for three months, or until they got a new armorer. Did an armorer come in today with you guys?"

  "I don't know."

  He shrugged. "It don't make a hell of a lot of difference now, because the squadron'll be getting P-twenty-sixes pretty soon, and they don't shoot through the props. But I got

  even, didn't I?"

  "I don't know whether you did or not. A corporal makes eighty-four pesos a month. You lost the ex
tra money, and you still had to be the armorer."

  "A man's soul's worth more than an extra forty-two pesos a month."

  "I can understand that. I'm a poet."

  He pointed to the cancer on his cheek. "You've got fair skin, kid, like mine. And in a few months, when you get a nice sun cancer like this one, maybe you can write a poem about it. I can't write poetry, but I knew how to tell a lie about not being able to synchronize the machine guns. It's a pretty tricky business, you see, and if it isn't done right you shoot off the propeller, I thought about doing it wrong, on purpose, so that the old man would shoot off his prop about five hundred feet up as he dived at the target. But if l had, I wouldn't be going home tomorrow."

  He got to his feet. "Fast or slow, it's still only two years. Don't brood, kid, or you might do something crazy. Just write your poems, and maybe"—he tapped the copy of Scribner's on the table—"I'll read a lovely ode to skin cancer in Scribners someday."

  He laughed and left the porch.

  I didn't know whether he had told me the truth or not. After all, there were technical manuals that explained how to synchronize the machine guns with the propeller. If a man could read, he could do it. On the other hand, officers didn't know much of anything about the technical aspects of the airplanes they flew. They had to depend upon the know-how of their mechanics and armorers. If the major wasn't sure that everything would work, he would hesitate to fire his weapons. The nose-heavy all-fabric P-I2, without a propeller, would take him abruptly into the ground.

  But all this didn't bother me at the moment. I found out later that the armorer had told the truth, and that he had been busted from corporal after only having his stripes for one week. What bothered me was the realization that I would be stuck at Clark Field with no way out for two full years. Of course, I had known that when I re-enlisted to come here, but that was not the same as the reality of it. The jungle surrounded the field on three sides, and the open plain on the remaining side led to a range of mountains in the distance. Here I was in the middle of nowhere, and here I would remain for two years. A wave of nostalgia overwhelmed me. I felt a loss for something I couldn't name, because I had no place to go back to, anyway,